Insatiable
by Kitty Smith
Summary: Voldemort muses on his struggles with Harry Potter. Warning: Voldemort is ridiculous.


**Diss the claim: I neither own Harry Potter nor profit from this story.**

**Warning: Voldemort is ridiculous.**

Voldemort paced the edge of his ominous clearing in the Forbidden Forest, robes billowing dramatically and snaring little brambles and seeds. Where was Potter? He'd killed many of his friends, stormed the castle, voiced a mysterious and evil-sounding warning to hand himself over- what more did the prima donna want? A thousand ships in the Black Lake with cannons aimed at the castle?

Although…

Shaking himself from the surprisingly romantic image of castle walls falling to cannon-fire, Voldemort refocused. His archenemy was surprisingly high maintenance. If he didn't funnel his efforts into killing the boy every few months or so, he'd find a way to stumble back into Voldemort's life, almost forcing him to act.

Leave the boy alone eleven years, and he thwarts your plan to return to a bipedal body. Give him a year to his own devices, he kills your only childhood friend and destroys the diary of your school years. The next year, Potter seemed to be feeling the neglect since he threw Voldemort's least reliable follower back into his lap, forcing him to balance nursing his own weakened condition and properly terrifying Wormtail into submission without giving away his status. He decided to involve Potter directly the next year, in hopes of keeping him away from his other plans, and he gets Voldemort's most loyal follower to commit suicide, just staying in the room with him. Granted, Barty had his cover blown and Aurors on his case but- but whose fault was that? Potter's, again!

So, apparently using Potter in his plan wasn't enough for the brat. So, he decided to _make _Potter his plan. He needed to hear what the whole prophecy was anyway. Every night, he'd bring his and Potter's minds as close as any two humans' had ever been, and seeded the beginnings of his plot. Sure, he hadn't dedicated his waking hours to the boy, but come on- he had an evil empire to build! There were decisions to be made and orders to be enforced and plots to be schemed! It wasn't enough. Potter had to go and take away his money-machi- er- follower, Lucius as penance for ignoring him.

What would it take? What did Potter want from him? His relatives' heads? His friends decimated? His home destroyed? Flowers and candy- Er. Voldemort shook his shiny head and brought himself back on track. Sometimes he wondered if splintering his soul had made his train of thought slightly unstable. He did seem to go off into tangents, now that he looked back on it. Ah, well; a thought for another time.

He'd tried taking the boy's secondary father figure the next year, hoping that would appease the almighty force that is Harry Potter, but all to no avail. Potter vanished, and spent the next year exacting his unholy revenge on every bit of Voldemort he could reach. And yes, the scaly man was fully aware of when his soul pieces went kaput. They were his _soul pieces_, in case you hadn't noticed. Sure, he mostly became aware of this from scouring the Potter boy's mind, but that didn't mean anything! He did not have lacking information networks!

Not at all!

So, he'd launched this attack on the boy's home, and, coincidentally, what he regarded as his own, after taking down the brat's precious Ministry (he'd heard Potter wanted to be an Auror) in order to take even Potter's future into account. What more could he do? That green-eyed devil had beleaguered him long enough; he could only hope this final effort satisfied the cruel boy enough to come to him and avoid utterly decimating his latest plan.

A rustle, and Voldemort jerked into a tense, still pose. No pacing, or the boy might sense his fear and attack.

"I'm here," Potter murmured softly, "You'll leave them alone."

It wasn't a question, but Voldemort managed a slow nod to show he was still playing along, excitement and fear coursing in his veins as his usually languid heartbeat thumped louder and louder. "The boy who lived," He breathed, voice a rasp of parchment in a dusty room, the only part of him left that showed his age, "Come to die." Potter closed his eyes, obviously finding Voldemort's song and dance acceptable and the elder of the two raised his wand hastily, not giving the demon time to second guess his decision. "Avada kedavra!"

And the boy fell. He actually fell to the ground, not attempting any defense or making a move to dodge. Voldemort couldn't believe it; could he really be free of this scourge? "Check him," he hissed, voice high with tension, floating just at the edge of ecstasy and anxiety.

The female Malfoy moved forward and searched for a pulse, seeming to share in the frantic disbelief of her master. "He's dead," she announced, and Voldemort felt a weight lift from his blackened heart, a high-pitched cackle of relief escaping him as he turned with a billowing of robes to break his word to the stupid, dead, teenage burden and take Hogwarts by storm.

The day passed in a dizzying blur of triumphant giddiness and sweet relief as he set his unbroken plan into motion. More than unbroken- all was going swimmingly, in fact. He brought the youngest Malfoy back into his fold and almost brought Hogwarts to his knees, when a voice called out.

"Voldemort!"

For a moment, he was frozen, stuck between fight and flight at the unmistakeable sound of his horridly insatiable nemesis' demanding tones. He turned, meeting angry emerald eyes, and realized the drama of his death obviously hadn't been nearly as high caliber as _the _Harry Potter required, so he was back to do it over.

In the moment of Voldemort's silence, Potter shifted, ready to launch into a righteous spiel and rally the troops to break Voldemort's well-laid plans.

What was it Potter had wanted? A flaming Fiendfyre funeral that took down the Forest with him? A place of honor in the oldest tree? An epic duel to the death?

"Let's finish this, Voldemort! Just you and me!" the human-clothed devil shouted.

Voldemort cringed, swallowed down the urge to cry, and tightened his grip on his wand. _Yes, dear._


End file.
